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by mcquidditch235
Summary: Based loosely off the song "Hotel Ceiling" by Rixton. Sherlock is away after The Fall, and finds out that John is dead.
1. Chapter 1

_Oblivion_

Sweet, empty oblivion.

A blessed gift from the crystalline amber of an empty bottle, swirling the world before his eyes.

It swims and swirls and cartwheels, a modge podge of polka dots dashing across the spackled ceiling.

The cushion of the crisp, fresh linens beneath him is no comfort. The blare of the newscaster surrounds him, engulfs him, drowns him in the cacophony of unintelligible words and music. Only 4 words have made it through the impenetrable barrier of his harried thoughts.

John. Watson. Is. Dead.


	2. Chapter 2

_John Watson is dead. Best known as right hand man to London's dearly departed fake detective, Sherlock Holmes, the man was found dead in the flat he shared with Holmes late last night. We don't have very much information as of yet, but it appears to have been a suicide; unsurprising considering the death of his close friend, and often suspected lover, Sherlock Holmes, 2 and a half months ago when he too committed suicide by jumping off of London's St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard agreed to give us a few words on his investigation. Hello Detective Inspector, thank you so much for joining us._

_Yes, erm, your welcome. _

_Inspector, what can you tell us about the death of John Watson?_

_Not much yet, we are still waiting for test results from the laboratory and an autopsy to confirm cause of death, but it appears he ingested a large amount of alcohol and sleeping medication in very short succession, causing him to overdose and die very quickly. He was found by the landlady, who lives in the flat below._

_Now, we were informed that you knew Holmes and Watson both personally, could you elaborate on that relationship?_

_They've been good mates of mine for a long time. It's been very hard to see them both go, but after Sherlock's good name was sullied by the numerous allegations against him, which myself and John Watson were working together on clearing, he was destroyed and took it upon himself to end it, and John followed, because those two men . . . ahem, whew . . .a closer and more perfect pair you will never meet._

_Thank you for your time Detective Inspector, we are extremely sorry for your loss and wish you well. _

_Thank you. _

_And that was Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. We wish the friends and family of the duo our deepest sympathies here at the BBC. If anyone wishes to send sympathy cards or flowers, they can be left at Paddington Cemetery, or they can be sent to their home at 221 Baker Street._


	3. Chapter 3

Onyx curls, once stunning in their fanciful unruliness, are now knotted and matted, plastered to the forehead of the supine figure beneath them. Stringy, oily coils lay in marked contrast to the soft plume that usually adorns the head. A pale hand comes up holding the thin neck of a miniature cure, a temporary one. A tepid, shudder-inducing, amber cure for all one's ailments and maladies of the heart and the mind. A quick swig and a shiver runs down his spine, the clinking of hollow glass follows the shifting of the covers, and he turns over into the lush cushion of the pillows, hiding his face from a world he'd like nothing better than to depart from, but he still has a job to do.

Just because John is gone doesn't mean that Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are out of danger. Still The Spider's web lurks around the edges of every known consciousness, just beyond the peripheral vision, shielding The Spider as it stalks its prey, preparing to strike with quick and deadly accuracy. He has to keep moving, to India, and then to Czechoslovakia, and then to Serbia, and then home.

But, where is home if the one thing that made it home is gone? Dead by their own hand?


	4. Chapter 4

A knock at the door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Even. Measured. Polite, almost.

He doesn't answer. The sound barely registers through the swirling, empty fog of his mind.

_Knock, Knock, Knock._

More insistent. Demanding.

A beep. The click of a door handle. Soft, deliberate footsteps on thin, worn carpet.

Step. Step. Step. Ste﹣

.

.

.

.

"Sherlock?" A questioning drawl. A question? What?

"What? Mycroft, what's wrong?" That voice. Warm, sunny, golden. Fills me up. It's gone now, why is it here?

Shaking, shifting, clinking of empty bottles, a swath of them, surrounding like a blanket, protecting from the world.

"Jesus, Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" Warm hands, cold inside, hollow, empty, like the bottles, not really there.

"Mycroft, you need to get an ambulance. Now." Steps away, taps on a screen, quiet voice, faraway.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, if you can hear me I need you to stay awake. You need to stay with me, okay. Stay right here."

Can't, got to go to John. Need John. John is home. Home. Darkness. Fading. Faraway voices.

Peace.


End file.
